


Chosen by the Wind

by terminallyToreadork



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminallyToreadork/pseuds/terminallyToreadork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He laughs like magic and windchimes. “I like you,” he says with a sharp grin, and gestures in a vaguely up-and-down manner. “I forget the scale, sometimes, of mortal things. I hope this is less intimidating for you.” </i>
</p>
<p>Tavros is a god, and sometimes gods need a little help, even in their ever-cryptic ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chosen by the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> I don't actually know what I just wrote. I'm half asleep. I'm pulling the names for things out of my ass.
> 
> This may turn into a whole damn AU but right now I'm too tired to say for sure.

The painstakingly rendered portraits of Those Chosen by the Wind smile gently down upon you as you drift along the staircase, gentle and ancient, their mouths parted in whispers and their poses speaking of untapped power as great and merciless as the wind itself. They are art you aspire to be, but only in secret, murmured apologies flowing from your lips whilst you kneel in Breath’s Respite. Ambition is not permitted to you or your family, yet you cannot help it.

Breath’s Respite is a wide room with no walls and a retractable ceiling. Pillars spiral and twist towards the sky, narrowing at the top to support the ceiling’s perimeter in thin branches that sing like reeds as the virtually unimpeded air currents swirl high above the ground. The architecture is something you neither question nor understand, and ironic to its purpose, it leaves you breathless.

As you gaze upon it tonight, you are alone, and it is dark. The shadows drip onto you, through you, sliding down the walls like oil where the moonlight does not reach, and it is thrilling to be able to slip up here undetected to pray. You would be scolded if caught, for sure, but like this you can feel closer to the wind, to the deity who graces your lungs with oxygen and scorching days with blessed relief.

You feel almost as if you have a purpose other than toiling for the constant upkeep of this structure of worship, not that anything is wrong with your place here, but it feels as though you were meant for something different. Something more exciting. Up here, you feel alive.

There is a single footstep behind you and you freeze in your cross-legged position on the stone floor. Cold flows through your chest with the knowledge that you’ve been caught, likely by one of your brothers or sisters whose duty it is to roam the night in search of those that shirk their curfew.

Closing your eyes, you anticipate harsh angry words and a heavy palm on your shoulder to drag you back to the room you share with three others.

You wait, but there is nothing but the breeze’s soft song, as if the air itself is loathe to disturb you and whomever waits behind. Little by little, you could swear you hear your name on the wind through the branches, until it is abruptly spoken into your ear, clear as the stars strewn across the blackness overhead.

“Gamzee,” it calls, and you are scared.

Turning takes more effort than necessary, your limbs and thoughts both needing to thaw but your heart is frantic. Your blood pumps even faster when you realize who is intruding on you, and hope clashes with terror as the realization has a moment to sink in.

He’s ethereal, unfocused, like he can’t decide just how corporeal he wants to be. His hair, one big dark stripe, would brush the ceiling had the ceiling been unfolded and pulled across the length of the room, whereas you stood barely as tall as a third of its height.

You get the idea that he’s second guessing himself, but before you can so much as open your mouth he’s walking towards you slow and easy, and by the time he reaches you, you’ve found yourself standing and you could kiss his forehead without either of you having to lean at all.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, and his voice is like the portraits on the stairs, shot through with concealed strength and vast compassion. You think your eyes may be watering.

“Ain’t a fuckin’ thing,” you somehow say, and your face heats up as your mind catches up with your mouth.

He laughs like magic and windchimes. “I like you,” he says with a sharp grin, and gestures in a vaguely up-and-down manner. “I forget the scale, sometimes, of mortal things. I hope this is less intimidating for you.”

“Well being all honest it’s weird as motherfuck to be taller than a god.” You tend to default to expletives and brutal honesty when nervous.

He looks surprised. “Oh.”

You miss when it happens, there is nothing to it after all, but he’s the same height as you.

“Better?”

“Yes?”

He laughs again and you never want him to stop. A big stupid grin stretches your face and you start laughing too with no idea why.

The mirth fades gradually and you’re left looking at each other, appraising and curious.

“I want you to do something for me,” he commands without warning. He feels more like an old friend than a deity, and it’s not as startling as you think it should be.

“Anything,” you agree without pause.

“Good.” He grabs your hands and then he’s within an inch of you and your throat closes and you can’t breathe.

He’s going to kiss you. Holy motherfucking shit he’s going to kiss you. You’ve read about this, heard it in the old legends, seen it depicted in half the tapestries you’ve ever laid eyes on and dreamt about it deep in your thoughts where no one could punish you for it.

He’s going to give you the Kiss of Breath and nothing is ever going to be the same again.

You’ve never kissed anyone in your life.

Your apprehension must have shown clearly even in the dimness, because he speaks again. “I can find someone else if you don’t want it.”

You do want it. The thought of being this close and not getting it hurts, it rips panic through your chest and you squeeze his hands and choke out “I want it,” like it would be your death if you didn’t.

He smiles calmly and leans in to touch his lips to yours.

Your soul burns. Your head spins. Your lungs are filled to capacity and your eyes are emulating waterfalls even squeezed shut and this is the worst and best thing you have ever felt.

He lays you out gently in the centre of Breath’s Respite, waiting until your limbs stop spasming before taking his leave. You stare blankly into the sky until the sun rises and someone finds you, wrapping your shivering body in a blanket and guiding you to your bed so that you can rest properly.

You are Gamzee Makara and you can sense the breeze outside your window. You can pull it through the grass and hear its laugh like magic and windchimes. You have been Chosen by the Wind.


End file.
